


Perestroika

by quercus



Series: No Resolution [2]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-11-10
Updated: 2000-11-10
Packaged: 2017-10-05 18:23:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quercus/pseuds/quercus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mulder and Scully investigate a mysterious radiation poisoning in Gum Springs, Maryland. Sequel to "No Resolution."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perestroika

Scully turns at a tap on her shoulder to find William Mulder, her partner's father, standing behind her. He holds a cigarette, smoke wreathing from it sinuously. He looks straight into her heart. After a moment, he says, "Miss Scully. What is Mr. Krycek's relationship with my son?"

Scully stares back at him, silent. She doesn't know what he means. Or rather, she knows what he means but not how to respond. Finally, he drops his eyes to his cigarette, taps the ash from it, takes a deep inhalation of its noxious fumes, and, smoke trailing from his lips and nose, says, "I see." His chest heaves slightly in a mirthless laugh. "I thought he was . . . that way. Teena told me, years ago. I slapped her for it. Then I beat him for giving her such ideas. Then I beat him again because I so enjoyed it." He looks into Scully's eyes again. She cannot move, she is trapped, a rabbit frozen in the headlights of an oncoming car. Her heart pounds in her chest, and she swallows with difficulty. He steps closer to her, and she jerks away in fright. She jerks awake.

She sits up in her bed, gasping for breath. Reaching for the light, she knocks over her water glass. She bursts into tears. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. How will she ever get back to sleep? She's afraid Mr. Mulder will return to her dreams.

One Saturday shortly after their return from Gum Springs, Maryland, Mulder had asked Scully if he could come over to her apartment. She'd bought a chocolate cake from her favorite bakery, beer and ale from a specialty liquor store, and ordered an extra-large pizza. Whatever he had to say, she wanted to be prepared.

He had arrived, on time, a little flushed, perhaps somewhat breathless. She'd wordlessly hugged him and led him to her couch, where they had sat holding hands. He stared at the floor, not drinking his beer. She let him sit. She'd let him sit all night if he needed it. But finally he raised his head. She thought she saw the glint of tears in his eyes, but remained silent. He laughed in embarrassment, then raised her hand to his mouth and kissed it.

"You know that I love you, Scully." She had smiled at him, in gratitude and love, but simply nodded. He nodded back, took a deep breath, and said, "I need to tell you what happened in Gum Springs. But I'm afraid to. You're going to be so angry with me, and maybe disgusted. I'm afraid I'll lose you." Now he waited for her.

She had looked into hazel eyes, noting with a doctor's dispassion his rapid breathing, flushed face, cold hands. Noting with a friend's and partner's passion his embarrassment and need. "Tell me anything, Mulder. I might get angry; I can't promise not to. God knows you've made me angry in the past. But you won't lose me. That I *can* promise you."

He had smiled again, and squeezed her hand. Took a deep breath and shakily released it. Cleared his throat. "Krycek was in Gum Springs. I saw him several times. He warned me about the abductions, that you would be taken. He told me to take care of you." His shoulders had slumped in guilt. "Obviously, I didn't do a very good job."

She had stopped him, a hand lightly on his face. "No one could have, Mulder. What happened wasn't your fault, wasn't your responsibility."

"I could have at least told you," he had burst out. "I *should* have told you, given you the choice to stay or go."

"Mulder," she had pointed out patiently, "what would I have said to you? What are the chances I would have gone?"

He had been determined to own the guilt. "Then I should have told Skinner."

She had to laugh. "Oh, yeah. 'Sir, Alex Krycek says I should take Scully home before she's abducted again.' And Skinner would have . . ." She had raised an eyebrow at him, urging him to accept the facts

But he had refused. "Maybe you're right. Maybe. But there's more." He had dropped his eyes again, the blush climbing from his throat into his face. Suddenly Scully had felt a shiver of fear. He didn't raise his eyes when he spoke again. "I -- Krycek and I . . ." He had swallowed again, convulsively. His voice hoarse from the tension in his body, he had whispered, "I had sex with him, Scully."

She had jerked as if he had slapped her. His demeanor had revealed his misery and thus the truth in what he had told her. Without wishing to, she saw them, imagined Krycek leaning over Mulder as he bent at the waist, fucking him, sliding in and out of him while Mulder pushed back. She had shaken her head to dissolve the image, but it had remained with her, as vivid as if she had really seen the two men so entwined.

That Saturday night, she had simply held him, while his silent tears of shame and fear had warmed her shoulder. "I can't give him up," he had whispered. "I don't know what's wrong with me, Scully. I've tried. I've tried to kill him," she had flinched at the admission, "but I can't. Help me."

When they had calmed to their usual ironic personae, while they had been eating the pizza, now cold, and sipping the beer, now warm, he had also admitted that Skinner knew. That he'd guessed. That set Scully off in an uncharacteristic fit of laughter. Mulder had had to laugh, too. Finally, she said, "Jesus, Mulder, who *doesn't* want your ass?" He had stared at her in shock, then embarrassment, then joined in her laughter.

As she mops up the spilt water, the image of Mulder and Krycek together returns to her, and she plucks at the throat of her nightgown. That's why Mr. Mulder had visited her in her dreams, she knows. He represents the part of her that refuses to accept . . . . them. The part of her that wants to hurt Mulder for his behavior.

They never speak of his confession. She carries it with her as she carries her religion, a silent, invisible weight. When they meet with Skinner, she finds herself studying him, watching him watch Mulder. One positive outcome of all this turmoil was how settled Mulder has become. She likes this new Mulder, so obedient, so procedure-conscious, although she does miss his ability to draw out the rebellious part of her, the part that encourages her to dump the trip to Florida in order to search for Mothmen, to head to Georgia to search for Big Blue, to spend Christmas at a haunted house. *That* Mulder will return, she trusts.

She doesn't know if Krycek is still in the area, still visiting Mulder. Some mornings she thinks she sees evidence of him on Mulder's body: a mark on his throat, a caution when seating himself. But these are subtle and infrequent and, she knows, could be caused by anything. She never asks; he never tells. Her heart surges with myriad emotions when she considers the possibility: jealousy, anger, fear. Arousal. She wants to ask him, to ask if they have safe sex, if he's taking care, but the words don't exist that would permit those questions. Instead, she makes a point to hug him often, to touch his hand frequently, to invite him to her mother's for meals. She refuses to let him slip away, as she knows a part of him longs to. He asked her for her help; this is the help she can give.

I'm waiting for Mulder. It's frightening, this desire I have to see him, to be with him, to hear his voice, to feel his hands on me. I've never needed anyone, and I dislike this needy, pathetic desire. Sometimes I hate Mulder. He's a pussy or he would have killed me long ago. My anger rises in me and I want to hurt him. Sometimes I do hurt him. He lets me. He needs it, too, the pain, the punishment. The shame. I know he was beaten as a child. He submits so well to my ministrations.

But more often than my anger, I feel fear. Fear that I will lose him. That he'll be taken from me. Taken by Scully, by Skinner, by the Consortium, by Fate. I do know that he'll never leave me. He would have to be taken, by someone or something.

My desire and my anger and my fear twine together to comprise a kind of love. Desperate. That's what I feel: desperate to see him, be with him, hold him. That makes me laugh. The desperate desperado, longing for his love. This is *such* horseshit.

Yet still I wait. His apartment is dark and quiet, except for the fish tank's green glow and soft burble. He should be home soon, and I feel my anticipation rising. What will we do tonight? Eat Chinese take-out and watch tv? Discuss what's happening in the Balkans? Slap each other until we're each gasping as we wrestle for control?

The door opens. He knows I'm here, some extra perception he possesses. Perhaps he senses my pheromones. Whatever, he pauses in the door for a moment, then carefully closes and locks it. He waits for me.

Something different tonight, I decide, as much as what I do could be called deciding. I wait a moment more. He steps uncertainly into the room, pauses. In the dim light, I can see a frown on his face. I detach myself from the wall I've been leaning against and slowly walk to him. The frown slips from his face, and a hunger widens his eyes and parts his lips. Careful not to startle him, I raise my hand and gently stroke his face, trailing my fingers down his cheekbone and jaw, then slipping my hand to the back of his neck. Almost unconsciously, I check for an implant: nothing.

I step closer to him and his body is pulled toward me. The heat pouring off him intoxicates me. I can smell his breath; he's snuck a cigarette on the way home. I'll punish him for that later; he knows the smell of cigarette smoke sickens me. But now I only want to be here, touching him, feeling his hesitant lips, warm and dry, press into my neck, my jaw, and now my mouth. His tongue slips into my mouth and I permit his exploration. I love kissing him. Those soft lips.

He has sensed my mood and acquiesced. Tonight we will not fuck or fight; we will make love. I've always wondered at that phrase: to make love. I realize that it's accurate. Our slow, soft movements are making us love. My heart is pounding so hard he must feel it through our clothes. Some other night I'll punish him for making me feel this way; he won't sit comfortably for a day or two, and I'll have bruises everywhere, but tonight is a truce. A pause in the fighting. Tonight we make love.

Skinner knows that that asshole Krycek is fucking Mulder. He can smell Krycek emanating from Mulder's body. He can see it in the way Mulder moves, in how his eyes don't quite meet Skinner's, in everything he says and does. Sometimes it's all he can do to keep from reaching across his desk, knocking everything off its glossy surface, and seizing Mulder by his tie, strangling him into submission and obedience. He grits his teeth and glares at Mulder, sitting quietly opposite him, partner at his side. Both are pale.

Taking a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart, Skinner explains why he's called them to his office. "I've heard from Ross Washington, from Gum Springs. There's been another . . . incident." Neither Mulder nor Scully speak, but both sit up a little straighter and pay closer attention. "He's asked for your help again."

Silence. The three sit in silence, deep in their thoughts. Thoughts about Krycek. Abductions. Missing time. An icy non-existence, a loss of control, shared fear. They do not wish to return to Gum Springs.

Finally, Skinner breaks the silence. "I've agreed to release you to assist the Gum Springs police. You have the expertise necessary. But I do so reluctantly. I want you to take care of yourselves. I want you to maintain contact with this office. Report in daily, or find yourselves on report. Do I make myself clear, Agents?"

Both nod, Mulder blushing slightly. Skinner stares at him. After a moment, he says, "Agent Scully, there's a body at Quantico you need to autopsy. It was found near the site where the last incident occurred. Send me the report as soon as you're through. Then join Washington in Gum Springs."

Another silence, then he releases them with an imperial wave. Get out, it says, and they do. He grinds his molars. Be careful. Be careful.

The silence grows. Neither Mulder nor Scully are anxious to discuss what happened the last time they visited Gum Springs. Since then, it's been easier not to talk. As they walk to the bureau car they'll take, Mulder gently touches Scully's shoulder. She tips her head up to look at him, but he continues walking. He just wants to know she's there.

Once they're in the car and en route to Scully's apartment to pick up her things, she forces herself to ask the question she knows Mulder doesn't want to answer. "Do you need to get in touch with him? Let him know you'll be gone a few days?"

He stares straight ahead. Several heartbeats later, he shakes his head. In a rusty voice, he explains, "He just shows up. We don't -- we're not . . ." They both retreat into silence, but he drops his right hand from the steering wheel to the console between them; Scully puts her left on top of his. When he pulls up in front of her apartment complex, they sit for a moment more. Then he risks a glance at her, drops his eyes, and says, "I'll answer your questions, Scully."

She looks away from him in some embarrassment. Exhales noisily. Then rolls her shoulders, to alleviate some of the tension. "Thank you, Mulder. Come up with me, okay, while I get my stuff. It'll only take a minute. I've got some root beer my cousin made; you'll like it."

The autopsy was, as autopsies go, fairly horrific. Scully had refused to permit Mulder to dress in a radiation suit and accompany her; she didn't believe that there was a need for him to see the effects of Hiroshima-level radiation on a young woman's body. He toughs out autopsies with the best of them, but she sees how pale he gets, sees the beads of cold sweat break out. Scully loves Mulder. As angry as he makes her, and he makes her very angry, she doesn't like to see him in distress.

And this was distressful. The woman, Annie Dyer, was only twenty-three, white, a young mother, her child now orphaned. No husband, but a mother, two sisters, and a female cousin. She'd disappeared from their home sometime after going to bed at eleven and had been found in the field two days later. Poisoned by a massive dose of radiation.

Where would such levels of radiation originate? Mulder and Scully haven't asked each other that question yet. They each have opinions, however, and will reluctantly share them. After everything Scully has been through, because of everything she's been through, she will fight each step to the conclusion she knows Mulder has already reached. She can foretell their conversation as accurately as she can the half-life of uranium.

He's gone back to Gum Springs, sent by that cretin Skinner. Jesus, he was *there*; he knows what happened. What could happen again. Shit.

My masters haven't mentioned anything about more occurrences at Gum Springs. That could mean several things, or it could mean nothing. I'm just an errand boy, not privy to the innermost secrets of the group. Or so they think. I know more than they think I do; I know more than they do. But not even I have heard what's going on at Gum Springs.

I find that troubling. It speaks to me of other groups, other interests at play. And there are other groups and interests. Mulder, Jesus, Mulder thinks of things in black and white. More accurately, in grey and white. But there are more things in heaven and earth, Fox, than even your philosophy dreams of. Certainly more than I ever dreamed of, back when I dreamed.

I feel burdened by the secrets I carry and keep from Mulder. He rarely asks me questions, though. I know what he wants from me; it's the same thing I want from him. His presence in my life. His body. His semen pumping into me, as if in some weird way he could impregnate me with his essence. And mine into him. Oh yes, mine into him.

We never use protection. I wonder if that bitch lectures him on safe sex. Fuck her. Fuck her with a condom-clad dildo. I want to know Mulder beyond any latex prophylactic's properties. I want to climb right inside him, or him into me; I want to merge with him until we're one person. And Jesus Fucking Christ, what a person we'd be. The world would not be safe.

So now I'll hie myself to Gum Springs, asshole of the State of Maryland, and wait to see what happens. If I'm lucky, I'll slip into Mulder's motel room and then right into him, fucking him, slapping him, biting his mouth until Scully bursts into the room waving her gun, coming to his rescue while I'm coming in him.

I have never felt such *anger*; I am not, by and large, an angry man, although some may find that difficult to believe. Mulder pulls this primal, vicious anger out of me, from the very heart that loves him. Star-crossed fuckers, that's what we are.

Mulder and Scully check into the same ratty motel they'd stayed in the last time they were in Gum Springs, the same adjoining rooms. It's late, after eleven, but Mulder is still wired. Scully had debriefed him about the autopsy on the ride from Quantico to Gum Springs; he recognizes the symptoms of radiation poisoning and the accelerated rate at which it occurred. Scully is a little cross with him; he assumes that's due to exhaustion as well as to her anticipation that he'll declare this an alien abduction experience. At the outer doors to their rooms, they say good night. As usual, he hears Scully unlock her side of their adjoining door; he also unlocks his side, but neither opens the door. She needs her sleep; he doesn't need an argument.

He feels agitated, restless. He paces his room, flicking through the few stations the aging television receives, then tosses the remote onto the bed. Nothing on. He thinks about logging in, cruising the Internet, maybe visiting a chat room, but doesn't feel like sitting. He should run. He pulls off his dress shirt when he hears a soft wolf whistle. Lounging in the bathroom door is Krycek.

Mulder's heart jolts in excitement and pleasure and a little fear. Krycek smiles at him, a peculiar smile he remembers from other nights spent together, the smile that means tonight he'll be punished for some trespass, imagined or otherwise. His cock rises in anticipation even as he shivers. The two men stare at each other, then Krycek jerks his head back slightly: come here. Slowly, Mulder crosses the room to him. They stand inches apart; Mulder's breaths come in enormous gasps. Slowly Krycek leans forward, until his lips brush Mulder's. "Go to the door," he whispers.

Mulder is confused, by his sexual excitement, by his fear, and by Krycek's words. "The door?" he repeats.

Krycek's eyes darken and the lines of his face become more severe. "Get over to the goddam door, Mulder." Mulder stares at him a minute more, then turns toward the outside door. "No, asshole; the other one." He means the door to Scully's room. Mulder hesitates, but when he catches Krycek's movement out of the corner of his eye, he moves to the door, looking over his shoulder at Krycek. Krycek is suddenly behind him and pushes him roughly into the door. He kisses Mulder's neck and slides his arm around Mulder's waist, slipping his hand up under his tee shirt to stroke Mulder's nipples.

"Please, Alex," Mulder whispers, but the only response is a bite to his earlobe. This is going to happen, he knows, right here, shoved up against the thin door to Scully's room. He closes his eyes in resignation, and lets his body respond to Krycek's. He feels Krycek's hand slip down to his trousers and work at the belt buckle and button. He knows better than to try to help with these tasks; they are Krycek's, just as his task is to suffer the assistance, knowing that he is the cause of the missing arm. He is the cause of so much pain, and only Krycek's attentions can ease that pain, and only for the few moments they are locked in each other's bodies.

His trousers and boxers are awkwardly pulled down; his tee lifted up. He pushes back toward Krycek, in eager anticipation, and rubs his ass against Krycek's erection. Both men are sweating as the friction of their bodies begins to work them into an altered state, a state of heightened focus, where anger transmutes into lust, where longing and desire and fear merge, where the two men finally merge. He rolls his head back against Krycek's powerful right shoulder and gives himself up to the other man's control. Will he be fucked right here against the door? Beaten? Left trembling for climax? Krycek is capable of anything. Mulder gives himself up.

Around midnight, shortly after she's climbed into the lumpy bed and turned off the light, Scully hears voices in the next room. Low, male voices. There's a loud thump against the adjoining door. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph; Mulder isn't going to bring Krycek in here, is he? But the door remains closed. Then a rhythmic pulse sets up against it. She gets out of the bed and cautiously crosses the room, standing near the door but to one side, in case it opens. She hears Mulder's voice, a low groaning, and then a steady thump thump thump. They are fucking right there in the doorway, against the door.

She closes her eyes. She is furious. She is offended. She is aroused, incredibly aroused. She moves in front of the door, and finally leans against it, the rocking of the door physically moving her back and forth, back and forth. She can hear Mulder gasp with each thrust. She spreads her arms out and grasps the door frame, and flattens herself against the door. Krycek is fucking Mulder right into her; her body vibrates as he pounds into Mulder, into her breasts and stomach and pelvis.

Suddenly Mulder cries out, "God, Alex, God," and then she hears Krycek for the first time: "Fox. Fox. Fox," he groans, continuing to call out the forbidden name again and again, in softer and softer tones. She is trembling against the door, clinging to the frame for support. She hears and feels another thump; she's sure it's Mulder's head dropping into the door in exhaustion. Then she hears a slap and a gasp, and a long sighed, "Yesss." Then silence. She presses her ear against the door, but there's only silence. The white noise of late night deafens her. She is suddenly alone. Bereft of Mulder's presence, she releases the doorframe and shakily walks back to bed. She doesn't know whether to masturbate, vomit, or weep. All choices seem equally unpleasant.

She pulls out the driest monograph she brought with her and begins to read.

Early the next morning, Sergeant Washington is happy to see them, as happy as he can be under the circumstances. "She was found in a field not far from where the saucer was sighted when you were here last. The coroner says it's radiation poisoning, but I wanted you to look at it." He's walking them to his lieutenant's office as he talks.

Lieutenant Bailey is not happy to see them. "I hate this shit," he tells them straight out. "I don't want it happening in my town. Figure out what it is and get rid of it, okay?" All three nod. "Get to it. Oh, Skinner called. He said you need to call in ASAP. Sounded pissed that you hadn't done so already." For the first time, the lieutenant looks amused.

As they walk to Ross's office, Scully calls in to Skinner on her cell phone while Ross talks quietly to Mulder. She tries to eavesdrop but has to focus on Skinner's assistant, Kim, as she sets up a telephone appointment for later in the day. "Don't miss this, Dana," Kim warns her. "I've never seen him like this. I haven't even taken a break today; I'm almost afraid to."

Scully sets her watch to beep to remind her of the appointment; there's no way in hell she wants to anger Skinner anymore than he's been since they returned from Gum Springs the last time.

Mulder is amused by Ross's attention to Scully. She seems oblivious to it, although Mulder knows she likes Ross. They sit in a diner drinking bad coffee, discussing the case in hushed tones. The waitress, a thin black woman with reddish hair, eavesdrops as hard as she can, so they keep lowering their voices. They're now hunched over the table with their heads close together as Scully summarizes her findings at the autopsy.

"Your coroner was right," she tells Ross, "it was radiation poisoning. The worst case I've ever seen. Destruction of lymphatic tissue, extensive hemorrhages, aplastic bone marrow, loss of her teeth. Her eyelids were burned due to thermal radiation, something I've only heard of; victims at Hiroshima and Nagasaki suffered it.

"She was also suffering from epilation -- hair loss -- as well as leukopenia, an abnormal decrease of white blood corpuscles. What's most strange is that these symptoms don't usually appear until several days after exposure, even to very high doses of radiation. Yet you say she was gone only two nights."

"How could this happen?" Ross asks her. "I knew Annie. Everybody did. She had a hard life. You know how it is in a small town; you make a mistake as a teenager, and you fight it the rest of your life. But she was good to her mama, and she loved her little girl. She didn't have anything to do with radiation. And how could she be gone only two nights and have symptoms like you describe?"

Mulder and Scully look at each other. For a few seconds they sit in silence, then Mulder takes a deep breath. Might as well get it over with.

But Ross saves him. "It's the UFO, isn't it. I heard they give off radiation. And it's in the same place as last time."

Mulder's nodding. "UFOs radiate between 25 electron volts, which is the bottom of the x-ray band, and 3 million electron volts, which is into the lower end of the gamma ray spectrum. That would account for the radiation burns."

"Mulder, where do you get this stuff?" Scully demands, her voice rising. She glances at the attentive waitress, then leans forward, intent on quashing Mulder's fantasy. "We can't prove the existence of UFOs, let alone measure any putative radiation they may or may not emit."

Ross puts his hand over hers. Surprised, she turns her focus on him, still frowning. "Dana, honey, you saw it. You were there. I saw the sunburn you got. Don't be mad at Mulder 'cause you don't wanna believe."

Scully is clearly rocked by this advice. She sits back, although she doesn't withdraw her hand. Mulder takes her other hand and leans toward her. "Ross is right, Scully. You saw it. You've been taken three times now. Three times. I know you don't want to believe. I know how scary this is. I'm scared. I bet even Ross is scared." Ross smiles ruefully at these words. "But we have to start with the assumption that the thing we saw last time is back, and that its radiation killed Annie Dyer."

"No!" Scully has tears of frustration in her eyes. "We *don't* start there, Mulder. We start with science, and we end with science. I can't live any other way, I just can't." The three sit in silence. Mulder waves the waitress over to refill their coffee cups; with enough cream and sugar, it's drinkable.

Finally, Scully sniffs, and licks her lips, sighing heavily. "Shit," she whispers, and shakes her head in dismay. "Shit." She turns to Ross. "You believe this?" He nods, and squeezes her hand. She sighs again, then looks at Mulder. "All right. For now." She smiles at him. "Are you going to include that in your report to Skinner?" But it isn't funny, and her smile quickly fades. Skinner. Another problem. Another radioactive encounter.

Ross drives them in his patrol car out to the site where Annie's damaged body had been found. He points out where the initial sighting had been, the one they'd witnessed, and drives a few yards farther east. He turns into a narrow road, almost a path, that cuts into an open field. It's obvious where to start looking; the grass is burnt and broken down, the earth a scorched black, its surface caking. They sit in his ticking car for a moment, simply observing the scene.

Finally, Ross tells them, "I borrowed a dosimeter from the station's emergency kit, but I'm not sure how to use it." He hands the device to Scully, who stares at it, then nods at him. They get out of the car and watch as she carries it toward the roughly circular markings.

"It's all right," she says. "The readings aren't even as strong as a dental x-ray." Still, the two men lag behind almost superstitiously.

The air is completely still, and smells of something burnt and dry. Scully identifies at least part of the odor as ozone; she knows from her years of working with Mulder that ozone is often detected at UFO sightings. She also knows there is rarely any forensic evidence left. Pulling on her gloves, she scoops up some of the brown cakey earth and puts it into an evidence bag; she also uproots some of the battered grass and bags it.

Scully then walks the perimeter of the crime scene, an ovoid approximately sixty feet in diameter. Again, Mulder and Ross remain behind, watching her. When she returns to her starting place, Mulder finally approaches her, concerned look on his face. "What?" she asks, a little shortly. She's puzzled and annoyed by his behavior.

"That's what I was going to ask you. What? What caused this?"

She sighs heavily. "I know what you want me to say, Mulder. And I've agreed to consider it. But give me some time. Let me examine the evidence. It's always best to theorize from data." He raises his eyebrows, but says nothing. Returning to Ross's car, he opens his duffel bag and takes out a Polaroid camera and proceeds to photograph the area. He even climbs onto the hood of Ross's car, to take an overhead shot. When he's finished, they return to the station in silence.

Mulder stares at the photos he took at the crime scene, moving them into different patterns, trying to understand what he's looking at. Scully's in a makeshift lab, put together with the help of a high school science teacher. Ross is with her, doing her bidding, following her every move. Mulder is starting to get concerned with Ross's doglike devotion; he isn't exactly jealous, but he isn't used to taking second place in Scully's life or work. He feels a little excluded.

His cell phone rings startling him out of his reverie; it's Skinner. "I didn't think it was time to report, sir," Mulder says defensively.

"No, you're all right, Mulder," Skinner reassures him, a hint of amusement in his voice. "I haven't called to ream you out. Or should I?" There's a pause, but Mulder isn't sure if he's supposed to respond. Finally, he swallows, but before he can speak, Skinner begins again.

"I've heard some rumors, Agent Mulder." Again he pauses, but Mulder sits up this time. Skinner's telling him that some unofficial advice has been given to him and he's passing it on to his agents. "I've heard that you've had a visitor." Mulder feels the blood rush to his face so quickly he feels light-headed; his face burns with the blush Skinner's words have generated. More silence. Skinner sighs heavily. "Be careful. You're being watched. Both of you." He hangs up suddenly.

Both of you. Does that mean he and Scully are being watched, or he and Krycek? And who's watching them? For what reason? He needs Scully; he needs Alex.

Mulder has shown Scully articles about how grasses at UFO-trace cases reveal expulsion cavities at their stem nodes and enlarged cell wall pits . Under her borrowed microscope, she finds exactly those characteristics. She rubs her head in frustration.

"What is it, Dana?" Ross asks her, coming to stand beside her.

She shakes her head. "The grasses show signs of extremely rapid heating. There's some residual radiation, too, although nothing like what Annie suffered. I don't know what to think of it."

"Is it the UFO?"

"Ross! You sound like Mulder, blaming everything on the UFO. What UFO?"

In answer, Ross gently touches her shoulder and turns her to face him. He's a big man, a little taller than Mulder and almost twice as wide. His kind face is creased with concern as he studies her. He smiles ruefully. "Why do you fight this, Dana? What are you afraid of?"

To Scully's dismay, her eyes fill with tears. She tries to look away, but he softly places his enormous hand against her chin. A tear escapes and runs down her cheek; he wipes it away with his thumb. "What is it, honey?" he whispers.

"Oh, Ross," she whispers back, and puts her arms around him. It's like hugging a wall, she thinks, and starts to laugh. He hugs her back, and then picks her up and sits her on the table beside the microscope.

"Tell me," he says simply, and she does. The words pour out of her: her years of fear, of dread; of losing a child, of losing the chance for children; of her fears for Mulder's safety and sanity; of her love for him; of the years of denial, and pain, and grief, and loss. His massive presence is as calming as Skinners'; more so, because he isn't associated with the Bureau and the evil she now knows it hides. Once she didn't trust Skinner; she's always trusted Ross.

When the torrent of words slows, and she's wiping her eyes on his handkerchief, she looks up at him, still towering above her even though she sits on the high table. His compassionate face is marked with his own tears. She puts her hand on his cheek; she is so tiny and pink compared to him. They stare at each other, then he kisses her hand. She blushes and drops her eyes. Just then, Mulder comes in.

"Hey, Scully," he begins, but stops at the tableau before him. She is able to look straight into his eyes, without embarrassment. "Yes, Fox?" she hears herself ask, then remembers Krycek used that name last night. Mulder blushes, as if he too remembers, and slowly enters the room.

"Skinner called. He says that we're being watched."

"What does that mean? By whom? Why?" Mulder can only shake his head and shrug. The three stand in silence. This case is filled with silence, Scully thinks.

After a moment more, Ross says, "Let's get some dinner. I'm hungry." To prove his words, his stomach growls loudly. He helps Scully down from the table, and they leave the police station, arguing over where to eat.

After dinner, after dark, Scully decides she needs to return to the site where Annie Dyer was found. Talking to Ross has freed something in her heart; she believes she can examine the crime scene with fresh eyes. Perhaps see something new, something that would explain the death. She has shipped the soil samples to Quantico and asked them to check for increased magnetic material in the soil as well as any kind of silicon. She has studied enough MUFON reports to know these, too, are characteristics of UFOs.

It's a beautiful night. The air is warm, the moon is full, and there's a slight breeze scented with something in bloom. Maybe jasmine. It feels good to be outdoors. The two men stand at the perimeter of the scorched area, watching her work. She suppresses a smile at their behavior, and opens her mouth to call to them. Before she can speak, however, the air incandesces. All the oxygen seems to be immediately vaporized and she stands in a halo of fire, breathless, motionless, sightless, soundless.

Mulder sees -- something. A cylinder, a cigar-shape, an oval, something without definite edges, its perimeter a nightmare, its circumference incomprehensible. It hovers or floats or skims above him, silent, hot, threatening, simultaneously absent and ominously present. He remembers this. The silence, the lack of any external reality, the absence of sensation, the utter and complete isolation. He is caught, adrift, alone; his worst nightmares externalized, stretching on into an endless abyss of solitude. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

When Mulder can see and hear again, he clambers to his feet, leaning against Ross, then helping his friend up. A diameter of perhaps five hundred feet has been blasted by the hot downwash they felt exploding from the now-absent cylinder that had hovered above them. Wiping dirt and sweat from his face, he suddenly realizes that Scully isn't there. He feels his heart clutch in his chest, his lungs seize, and he gasps for breath. "Scul-leee!" he bellows.

Scully had been right here, with them. Beside him, Ross's face gleams with sweat in the moonlight, his eyes wide; he, too, is breathing as if he'd run a mile. "Where is she?" Ross shouts at him, "Where did she go?"

Mulder turns in a slow circle. Ross takes one of his arms and they stand, staring at the empty, wind-swept field. It stinks of ozone and something else. The brilliant moon can't warm their fears, as they stand in the empty circle. Scully is gone.

Then Mulder remembers Alex.

I wake to an icy silence that I remember from before. I twist in the invisible bonds, nearly breaking my arm, and curl onto my side. Next to me lies Scully, as sound asleep as Snow White. We are nowhere. I mean that literally: nowhere. We recline on nothing, a pale cool nothing the color and texture of an eggshell. We are surrounded by nothing.

I have been here before. As has Scully.

I gently trace my finger down her face, from her temple to her cheekbone to her jaw. She sighs. Her eyelids flutter, and then open.

She recognizes me at once, I can tell, but her patented control never slips. She blinks, perhaps in surprise, perhaps not, and sighs again. Her eyes leave my face and travel around the nothingness in which we hover. Only then does any emotion cross that perfect face: dismay, shock, fear. She closes her eyes again, takes a deep breath, and then opens them.

"How do we get out?" she asks me. As if I'd know. I shrug elaborately, exaggeratedly. Don't ask me, I'm trying to say, but her hand snaps out and seizes my jacket collar. "Krycek," she growls. My name is a curse in her mouth. I pull away.

"I don't *know*, Scully." Then I sit up. "Shit, is Mulder here?" She also sits and we look around us. But there's nothing to see, because we aren't anywhere. I know, from experience both professional and personal, that we are in neither space nor time. While we are here, we don't exist. Wherever Mulder is, we can't get there from here. My chest actually aches with longing to see him. I hate that part of myself, and gasp with the physical pain his absence causes me. Scully looks at me, in curiosity or concern, but I ignore her. She isn't him. She could never be him.

Then the lights return and then I'm falling and then I'm not

Ross and Mulder sit unhappily in Lieutenant Bailey's office. He and Skinner stare at them in disbelief and anger. "I told you," Bailey shouts at them, "I *hate* this shit. I told you to get *rid* of it." For a little man, he has an enormous voice; it reverberates in his small office. He is practically vibrating in his fury. "How did the press find out, Washington? Did you call them? Is this some way to get on the tv?"

Ross, sweating heavily in the icy air conditioning, shakes his head firmly. "No, sir," he says softly. "I don't want this anymore than you do, sir. I don't want Dana missing . . ." his voice trails off.

Beside him, Mulder closes his eyes. He is in such pain that he can barely breathe. Scully was taken from him yet again. He did this; he brought this misery on her, this danger. He refuses to let himself speculate about Alex's whereabouts. Losing both of them, losing one of them, will kill him; he knows that. He's been through too much; one more loss, one more injury, and his poor damaged heart will simply stop from the pain.

"Mulder." Skinner's voice is surprisingly gentle. Mulder feels a hand on his shoulder, and then someone sits in the folding chair next to him. He opens his eyes to see Skinner tucked into the too-small chair. "Do you know where she is?"

To Mulder's embarrassment, tears fill his eyes. Skinner's hand squeezes his shoulder and rubs small circles on his back. The kindness is too much, and he drops his head. "Hey." Skinner touches his chin, and he raises his eyes.

"They took her," Mulder whispers to his supervisor, who closes his own eyes at those words. "It's my fault."

"No! Goddammit, no. You don't control this, Mulder; this isn't your fault. If anyone's, it's mine, for sending you here."

"Or mine," Ross says softly, "for asking you to come."

Mulder's shaking his head. "No, we wanted to come. But she was assigned to me; she would have had a brilliant career but for me --"

"Shut up, Mulder," Skinner orders him in his command voice. "Don't fucking use the past tense about Scully." He squeezes Mulder's shoulder more firmly and gives him a shake. Mulder stops talking, but looks up at Skinner, guilt in his heart and on his face. He remembers whom he's talking to and flushes.

For several moments the four men remain as they are: Bailey standing, staring at the floor; Washington watching Mulder and Skinner; Mulder leaning into the stern comfort of Skinner's hand; and Skinner stroking his subordinate's shoulder. Then Skinner sighs, and says, "I need to talk to my agent alone, Bailey; do you have an office I can use?"

Bailey strides to the door and motions toward Washington. "Right here. Ross and I need to take a walk." He shuts the door behind them, and Mulder looks curiously into Skinner's face. He's not sure what he sees there -- concern, certainly, and anger, but something else. He feels a little thrill of fear, as he often does when alone with Skinner. He waits to learn his fate.

Finally, Skinner clears his throat and asks, "Was Krycek here this time, too?"

Mulder feels his face blush bright red. He wants to escape, but there's nowhere to go. He swallows, and nods. "Yes, sir. I saw him last night."

For a heartbeat, only silence. Then the grip on his shoulder becomes painful. "I should beat the shit out of you," Skinner tells him, almost conversationally. Mulder nods miserably. "Why are you with him, Mulder? What's the draw?" A longer and more uncomfortable silence, and then Skinner adds, "That is not a rhetorical question. Since he's a wanted felon, I think I have a right to know."

Mulder can't think how to respond. He thinks he would prefer the beating to answering, but he does owe Skinner the truth, as much of it as he knows. At last, he whispers, "I love him."

"Shit." Skinner drops his head back, but his hand never leaves Mulder's shoulder. "That is the last thing I wanted to hear you say. Jesus, Mulder, you're not stupid; do you have some kind of death wish?"

That makes Mulder laugh, a little, but a painful laugh. "I guess I've always been a little self-destructive."

"A little," Skinner agrees dryly. "Tell me one reason I shouldn't have you arrested. Throw you in jail and out of the Bureau. Break your arm," and again he squeezes Mulder's shoulder.

Mulder is shaking his head, even as he winces from the pressure. "You should, sir. Part of me wants you to."

"Yeah, I figured that out. You do have a death wish." Skinner sighs heavily, then releases his grip and pats Mulder, quite gently, on his back. "Sorry, buddy, not today. Today your punishment is helping search for Scully. And for Krycek, I suppose. Bailey will put together a search team. We'll beat the bushes for her, talk to everyone in the area. And you won't leave my sight. Got it?"

Mulder nods, and receives a gentle cuff on his head. "Yes, sir." He smiles ruefully. "Why aren't you arresting me, sir?"

Skinner puts his large hand around Mulder's chin and jaw and tilts his head toward him. Stares into his eyes. "I'm going to say this once, Mulder, and then never again. But you were honest with me, and I'm going to be honest with you. I'm not arresting you, I'm not beating the crap out of you, however much you deserve it, because I love you. Got that? You piece of shit, over the last six years of watching you nearly die, pretend to die, be shot by your partner, nearly shoot your partner, and God knows what else, I've learned to love your sorry ass. And if you ever refer to this conversation again, you won't live long enough to regret it."

Mulder stares at his boss, his dry mouth open with surprise, fear, regret, and enormous affection. "You --"

"Shut up, Mulder," Skinner says again, and that's it. He rises and opens the door, waiting for Mulder to precede him. As they head toward the break room, Mulder is very aware of his presence beside and slightly behind him.

I wake on a green hillside, damp from the dew, stars gleaming above me in a moonless sky: so many messages I cannot read. Everything hurts: my muscles, my throat, even my bones. The air is cold in my nose and lungs. I bring my hand up to rub my face and brush something beside me. Scully.

She is staring at me, the whites of her eyes visible in the starlight. Her tongues moistens her lips, and she whispers, "What happened?"

I struggle to sit up, shrugging my jacket more closely around me. She looks cold, wearing only a light low-necked sweater. Cashmere, maybe. I sniff and rub my nose. She asks again, "Krycek, what happened?"

"You know what happened, Scully." My voice is hoarse; I must have been screaming. "We were taken. It's happened before." The bitch's face closes up; for a moment, I think she's going to cry, but I should know better. Why Mulder loves her . . . but I won't think about them.

She whispers, "When I was taken before, I was returned to the same place."

I stand, then offer my hand and help pull her to her feet. "Yeah, well, sometimes they make mistakes, Scully. Sometimes they put the clothes on inside out, sometimes they put people in the wrong place. I'd say that's what happened to us. Now we just need to figure out where are and how to get home."

Shit. That just slipped out. She's looking at me with those laser blue eyes of hers that see all, see right through a man. If a cartoon bubble came out of her head with the words, "Where does he call home?" in it, I couldn't know with more certainty what she's thinking. Well, fuck her. Home is with Mulder, Princess.

To my surprise, almost my disappointment, she says nothing. Just adjusts her clothes, brushes back her hair, and looks around. The air is very cold; I can see her nipples through her sweater. We're on a gentle hill, surrounded by woods. I can't tell what kinds of trees; maybe oaks. They're not very tall, but dense. She touches my hand briefly and points down the hill behind me. Lights, dotting the hillsides. Maybe fires. Without speaking, we set off toward them.

I'm thirsty, and I imagine she is, too, but she doesn't complain. Over the rough ground in those impossible heels wearing only that too-sheer sweater and tight blue jeans; skin no doubt burning as mine is from whatever radiation we've absorbed; thirsty; cold; exhausted; frightened -- she never complains. I feel a grudging respect for her. Mulder would be whining, cracking jokes, offering absurd suggestions for collecting drinking water from the leaves, and speculating on the reason for the lights we're heading toward, but she just soldiers on. Jesus. I hope we're not going to *bond* or some horseshit like that.

The lights are -- hard to locate. Almost as if they're moving. I don't know how long we walk. I had hoped the exertion would warm me, but the night seems to be getting colder. I'm starting to worry; it couldn't be this cold in Gum Springs, Maryland, this time of year. Where the hell did those bug-eyed monsters dump us?

Suddenly, the trembling lights seem nearer, nearby. Without exchanging a word, we begin to jog toward them. Every bone in my body aches and my head is throbbing, but I feel almost exhilarated by the run, sucking in the gelid air, feeling my heart pound. I know why I feel this good: I'm alive and out of their clutches. For a few moments, it's just me, Alex, running through the forest, free free free.

Then Scully grabs my arm and I almost trip trying to keep up with her sudden veer to the right. She pulls me down behind a thick bush. We're both gasping for breath and my sweat quickly cools me down. She puts her mouth to my ear and breathes, "Look." She nods toward the fire. I carefully crawl around the bush and peer through the heavy branches of the strange low trees we'd been running through.

Oh my Christ. It isn't a bonfire at all. I don't know what it is. Glowing lights, flickering yellow and blue. Certainly not human. There's a strange smell -- ozone, maybe, something metallic. I can taste it. It burns my nose and throat and lungs. For an instant I think I see someone -- no, something; but that can't be right. Dancing figures. Their proportions all wrong. That can't be right.

I crawl back and look at my companion. She's huddled into herself, hands tucked inside the sleeves of her sweater, butt on her heels, trying to fold up like an origami sculpture to keep warm. Her little face tilts up to mine; intelligence shines out of it fiercely. I nod at her, then jerk my head back the way we came. Time to get the hell outta Dodge. She nods in agreement and begins to crawl back up the hill. Then she pauses and looks back over her shoulder, first at me and then behind me. I see her eyes widen and her lips part. I see the trembling lights reflected in her eyes, then she closes them against the sight. I shut my eyes as well, and hang my head, and think of Mulder. I want him to be the last thought I have. Mulder.

Through her tightly-closed eyes, Scully can see the bones in Krycek's face as though looking at a red x-ray. Then she can see and feel nothing, nothing, an absence of nothing, neither sleep nor death nor unconsciousness, simply an icy absence, nothing

She opens her eyes and finds herself deep in Mulder's body, her right hand pumping his engorged cock as she thrusts into him, slowly pulling back and shoving into him again as she stares into his face. Sweat and tears mingle on his beloved face, she is pregnant with love for him, then he opens his eyes and looks at her, straight into her heart, and cries, oh, Alex, Alex, and she explodes into him as he comes in her hand; she wants to eat him to drink him to be him

Krycek can see the bones of Scully's delicate face as though they were painted in red on her skin. Then there's nothing, oh shit, he's back in the silo, oh Christ, he can't do that he can't do that he can't do that

He finds himself straining over Mulder's unconscious body as he drags it to his car, opens the passenger door, props him against it, then runs, gasping, to the driver's side, climbs in and over to the passenger's seat, grasps his beloved partner under his arms, oh sweet Mary there's so much blood, and pulls as hard as he can until he thinks he'll pull his own arms, his own two arms, out of their sockets but finally he drags Mulder up into the car, he's sobbing, he shot his partner, Hail Mary, full of grace, blessed art thou amongst women, please Mary, don't let him die

They rise from their shelter and run away from the lights, each step an anchor and a blessing, cool air drying the sweat from their burned faces. Their only thought is to escape. Their only desire is to live.

Scully's heels keep tripping her, but she struggles on, falling behind but never stopping. At first I continue on without her, but then stop suddenly and run back. Grabbing her around the waist, I whisper, "Break off the heels or throw away the shoes. I'd do it, but I only have one hand." She stares at me in shock, then slips her expensive pumps off and picks one up. There's no way she can break off that heel. She holds the shoe with both hands; I grab the heel with my hand and wrench. Then the other shoe. Wonder how many of her dollars I just trashed. She slides her feet back into them, and we begin running again.

This time, I keep hold of her hand, pulling her along as she holds me back. It's the first time I've held hands with a woman in more years than I can remember. And Scully is so tiny, so fragile. An illusion, I know; she'll outlive me by decades, and Mulder, too, but the sensation is disorienting.

Whatever we'd experienced back by the bonfires keeps us running, through exhaustion and thirst. Fear is a powerful motivator. Eventually, though, we're forced to slow to a walk, gasping and choking. My throat and lungs burn in the cold air. I haven't the slightest idea where we are; for all I know, we could be on another world. I know Scully will die sooner than mention what she'd seen, but I need to know. I put my arm around her shoulders and we walk through the dense forest of mysterious trees, a couple of sorts, on a midnight stroll. We might be mistaken for lovers. The thought makes me laugh.

Without warning, we step onto asphalt. Scully's feet are bare; she's lost her broken shoes and I can see that her stockings have shredded in the assault on them as we'd run. She limps along as we turn to our right, heading downhill. I remember some advice I'd received years ago: always head downhill, that's where the towns are. So down we go, hobbling along, holding each other in the icy midnight.

Wherever we are, we're walking on a road made by humans. We'll find someone eventually, or someone will find us. Until then, we keep walking.

Skinner thinks he'll explode from his conflicting emotions. He is terrified at Scully's absence and at Ross and Mulder's story; he is furious at Mulder for dragging her down here; he is incensed at himself for releasing them to this case; and he is frightened by his anger and love for Mulder as he watches him struggle through this night.

It's almost dawn. The air is warm; it's going to be a hot day. The entire police force of Gum Springs is out, plus a good-sized contingent of federal agents, tramping through the grass where Scully disappeared, knocking on doors, stopping cars. The moon is setting in the west, looming over the landscape, a silent witness to all that's transpired. Skinner stares at it in distaste; who knows who's watching them.

Mulder approaches him. He looks terrible, ragged and weak. Skinner understands that he and Scully are connected emotionally, even spiritually, and that her loss will kill him. He wants to embrace Mulder; his arms rise without his volition and he must force them down. Even if Mulder desired his embrace, which he does not, he couldn't indulge here, in front of their brother officers. Instead, he walks toward him, takes his arm, and drags him to his car.

He drove his own Jeep pickup down to Gum Springs from Alexandria. He puts Mulder into the passenger seat and leaves the door open, turning off the overhead light. There, hidden by the door, he puts his hands on Mulder's where they lie on this thighs. "Listen to me, Mulder," he says, using his command voice.

Years of responding to that voice pull Mulder up into a straight posture and he looks into Skinner's eyes. Mulder's eyes are red, his nose pink; Skinner can tell he's been crying, out in the grass where no one could see. His heart twists in his chest in compassion for the suffering man before him. "Listen. We'll find her. She'll come back. I don't want to lose you, Mulder. Stay strong."

As Skinner knew he would, Mulder responds, "It's my fault. It's all my fault --"

"Shut up," Skinner orders him roughly, squeezing his hands. "I don't care if that's what your father taught you about Samantha. I don't care if that's how you feel. It isn't true, Mulder. Fox, listen to me. It isn't true. I want you to believe me. Do you believe, Fox?" Skinner dislikes the pleading tone that has entered his voice and stops talking.

Mulder stares into his eyes. For a moment, Skinner thinks he'll break down completely, but he takes a deep breath, rolling his head back to exhale. Finally he looks again at Skinner. "I'll try," he whispers. Skinner nods, and squeezes his hands again. The ache in his heart threatens to overwhelm him. He had promised Mulder never to speak of his love again, never to burden him with that knowledge, but the promise is so heavy, so difficult to keep. He longs to put his arms around the agent, to weep in sympathy, to kiss his swollen eyelids. He forbids himself all these gestures.

At last he releases Mulder and picks up a water bottle from the dashboard and offers it to him. Mulder drinks long and deeply, then offers it to Skinner. As Skinner drinks, he pictures Mulder's mouth around the lip of the bottle. He closes his eyes in pain and in love. When he's through, he wipes his mouth with his sleeve, and says again, "We'll find her." Mulder nods, and smiles slightly.

"Tell Ross that," he whispers.

I open my jacket and pull Scully so she's in front of me; now I can wrap my jacket around her. Can't do anything about her feet, cut and bruised by our run through the forest and the long walk on rough asphalt. We move slowly; she leans back against me. I realize how very delicate she is. She's such a powerful personality that her image distorts the reality. But in my arm, she is petite, unsubstantial.

And Mulder loves her.

No cars have passed us since we've reached the road. We are as isolated as if we'd been set down in Atlantis. For all I know, we may be the last humans left alive. The aliens have that power, I know, to distort time, bend space, and destroy billions.

Pretty ironic, hunh, if I were the last man and Scully the last woman. O brave new world that has no people in it.

Scully has, reluctantly, hesitantly, described what she'd seen at the bonfire. Dancing figures. Wrong proportions. The smell. The ethereal light trembling in the night's breeze. She had refused to speculate on the significance of what she'd seen, though. Typical Scully, I think contemptuously, but feel a slight smile on my face. Mulder is simultaneously frustrated and strengthened by her commitment to science and theories with reproducible results. I, on the other hand, simply find it amusing, that someone so intelligent could be so limited. The day she takes that final step of acceptance, she will become truly formidable.

I discover that I want to be there when that day comes.

She slows to a halt, sways under my arm, then twists round to face me. Her small features are strained with fatigue, and I grasp her more firmly Without speaking, we agree to stop, and step off the asphalt into the thick weeds at the edge of the roadway, and then under the trees. A person might conclude we're hiding. I sit first and then pull her into my lap. It is a measure of her physical state that she doesn't argue or fight, but lies back against me as I rest against the trunk of the tree we have settled under.

I sniff her cautiously, disbelieving. She even smells like Mulder, after all these years. I close my eyes and will himself to dream.

Skinner's face is nearly purple in his anger and frustration. Ross Washington is silent; his chest heaves with some emotion. Mulder watches the two men from his seat in Lieutenant Bailey's office. Bailey is handling the press, which have congregated in Gum Springs as if Jesus were returning.

Mulder's own chest aches; he can barely breathe. Scully is still missing. Alex is still missing. The two people in the world he cannot live without are gone. He longs to be numb with pain or grief or drink, not this steady seizure of pain in his chest and head and throat. He watches his supervisor pace the floor, glaring at him as if he were at fault. Which of course he is. He dragged Scully here. He was the reason Scully was assigned to the X-Files all those years ago. It all comes down to him. His fault. His guilt. He tries to remember Skinner's reassurances, but they are as hollow as his heart.

Skinner's cell phone rings; he rips it open and bellows into it. There's a long silence, long enough that Ross opens his eyes and looks up at him. Skinner takes an enormous breath, shuts his eyes briefly, then says, "Thank you. Get them back as quickly as you can," and disconnects. He stares into space for a moment, then places his hand on his chest, as if he, too, were having difficulty breathing. Then he faces Ross and Mulder.

"They're in Ireland."

"Dana?" Ross's face has opened in hope; he stands and takes Skinner's arm. "Dana's in Ireland?" Skinner nods, but looks at Mulder.

Tears fill Mulder's eyes; he understands. Alex is there, too. He also stands. "What will they do with him?" he whispers.

Skinner stares at him, grinding his molars. Ross turns back and forth between the two men as if watching a tennis match. Mulder takes a step nearer Skinner, and puts his hand out. "Please, sir." Skinner drops his eyes, then pushes past Ross and Mulder. Mulder seizes his arm and turns him back.

"Let me go, Agent." But he won't look at Mulder, who closes his eyes.

"Please, sir," he whispers again. He feels Skinner shift on his feet, then is gently embraced.

"Mulder. I'm sorry. This isn't what I want." The two men lean against each other for a moment more, then Skinner releases him. Mulder opens his eyes and looks at his supervisor; Skinner's pain is etched into his face. "I'm sorry." Then he leaves.

Ross approaches him cautiously. "Mulder?" But Mulder shakes his head; he cannot speak of Alex, not now. Only Scully will understand.

Ireland. Jesus, did the little grey guys fuck up this time. Achill Head, on Achill Island, in County Mayo, Ireland. I ask you. No wonder we were so fucking cold. And who the hell knows what we'd seen dancing around those non-bonfires; leprechauns? The Little People? Darby O'Gill? Are the greys just spectacularly bad at terrestrial geography, or is this a grey joke?

We'd been helped by an almost incomprehensible old woman leading a sad looking cow along the road, its bell donging in the dim glow of morning light. The smell was amazing, but reassuring, too; so very earthly, earthy, compared to the metallic stink of whatever we'd seen earlier.

Scully, I discovered, has the map of Ireland on her face. She fits in with these pale people: pale hair, pale eyes, pale skin. I stand out in stark contrast with my dark hair and slitted eyes, Cossack that I am. But they've been kind to me, feeding me some kind of salty bread and massive cups of sweet tea.

Scully's been kind, too. She's introduced me as her husband, instead of the serial killer she thinks I am. Well, maybe she's right. But always for a good cause, for the sake of the earth. Does she know that? Would she believe me if I told her? Does it matter?

Hell, yes. She's Mulder's partner and, for better or for worse, so am I, in some sick way. Is the partner of my partner also my partner?

They've put us to bed, a narrow double bed that stinks of mildew in a room so holey the light and wind come straight through. We might as well be sleeping outside. But pragmatic Sully has curled up and fallen straight asleep. I lie here, thinking of Mulder.

Why am I so angry at him? All the beatings he's given me have long since been repaid. My arm -- it's gone. That's all there is to it. Hurting him will never bring it back. I think I hurt him because I love him. And even a sick fuck like me recognizes that's not a reason.

What would he do if the next time I saw him, I didn't strike him? Didn't say the words that cut him? What if we just were? Could we just be? Would the universe allow such a thing?

To my shame, a tear rolls down my face. I swallow and wipe it away. I miss him. I do.

I roll to my side and discover Scully awake and watching. I feel my burnt face flush with embarrassment. She slowly reaches out and touches my face, still damp from the renegade tear.

"Why didn't you turn me in?" I ask her. She doesn't answer, just stares at me with those pale blue Irish eyes. I surprise myself my kissing her hand, and see her blush. Well, well; I flustered the icy bitch.

"He loves you," she finally says, and then I humiliate myself by gasping in pain. If she had kicked me, it couldn't have hurt more. I put my hand over my eyes, but she pulls it away. "Don't hurt him anymore," she asks, echoing my own thoughts. "He loves you, Alex. If you don't want him, there are others who do, who won't hurt him."

I angrily wipe my eyes and nose. The exhaustion and misery of the last two days has certainly taken its toll on me, to weep in front of this -- this -- But the unkind words won't come to me. She loves him, too. We share this. We share him.

"You came to him when he was tired and afraid. He thought he had no one else. But he does, Alex. Promise me you won't hurt him anymore."

"Let me go," I bargain, and she nods.

"I already have. No one here knows who you are. You can stay behind, get back to the States on your own. I won't take you back."

She's already thought this through. "If I say no?"

"You can still go free. I won't take you back, because it would hurt him."

She's thought it through farther than I have. I nod. "I'll stay here for a while. Tell him I'll get back to him." She nods, and waits. Finally, I concede, "I won't hurt him anymore, Scully. Not the way I used to. But he has to --" He has to what? But she's nodding again. No wonder Mulder gets so frustrated by her; she already knows everything I'm thinking.

I get out of the bed and pull on my shoes and jacket. Before I leave, I turn and look at her, so small in that uncomfortable bed. We stare at each other for many heartbeats. Then I pull open the door and leave her there, alone except for my promise.

Mulder's waiting for Scully at the end of the jetway. He must have used his ID to bully his way through, she thinks, smiling in exhausted pleasure as his handsome face creases in delight at the sight of her. She hugs him tightly, then kisses him unselfconsciously. "I missed you," he whispers to her, resting his forehead against hers as the other passengers flow past them.

"And I missed you," she whispers back. He takes her arm and they start up the jetway. Skinner is waiting for her, too, looking relieved and cross at the same time. Grinding his molars, she observes, even as he holds out his hand to shake hers and welcome her back.

The two men look at her expectantly. Skinner says, "We were told your husband decided to remain in Ireland."

She blushes but refuses to drop her eyes. "Yes, sir. I thought it best not to risk returning him to the U.S. on a commercial jet." It's a ridiculous excuse; both men look away from her, smiling slightly. At last, Skinner nods, and takes her carry-on. "Let's get you home, Dana."

As they push their way through the crowded airport, Mulder asks, "How did you get to Ireland, Scully?"

She smiles, then laughs. "Oh, Mulder. I wish I knew. There was a light," and she looks up at him. He's older now, a few more wrinkles and a lot more grey hair than when she first said those words to him, so long ago in the plausible state of Oregon. He takes her hand and they swing their arms, while Skinner shakes his head in amusement.

"Do you believe in the existence of extraterrestrials, Agent Scully?" Mulder teases, but she slows to a stop, and he turns to look at her. Skinner stops as well, watching them both silently.

"Mulder. I don't know that I can believe. I know that something happened to me, that something took me to Ireland, but I don't know what. I've seen things, things that might be extraterrestrial in origin. But I need my science. I need proof. I'm not saying no, I don't believe, Mulder. I'm saying I need to keep working on the x-files."

They stare at each other. Scully is aware of Skinner's presence behind Mulder. She thinks, he's always there, supporting us. Trying to help, even when it hurts him. Then her attention returns to Mulder's face, a face she loves. She remembers what she'd seen in Ireland. She reaches up and touches his cheek, lightly stroking it. "He said he'd come back," she whispers. Mulder drops his eyes, then raises them to hers. He smiles.

The three continue through the airport. After a moment, Mulder begins to tease Scully about Ross Washington. "Oh my god," she breathes, "I've got to call him!"

I stand on a bridge in Keel-Dooagh, watching the water flow under me, out to the sea. It's windy here, a steady western wind that smells of sea and salt. I breathe deeply and watch the water. The wind is full of a thousand voices, calling me home. I like it here, but my masters will be furious if I stay. And my heart tells me it cannot beat here for long, so far from him.

I think about him, at home, in bed, at work, in his car. Living a normal life, whatever that means. I think he misses me. Sometimes I can feel his presence, as if he were in the next room, calling me. Sometimes as if he were next to me, pointing out a sight.

When I see him again, things will be different. I'm not sure how. I'm not sure I know how to be different. But it's time. Stasis is death; change is life.

It's time for a change. A restructuring. A new beginning.

The river runs past me, out to the sea.

* * *

"What happens to our everyday approaches to truth when reality isn't, when we try to amass information our relation to which is fragmented and unclear, when answers are lacking, either in availability or capacity to satisfy? The answer, abduction." Jodi Dean, _Aliens in America_

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to Annie Dyer, for letting me kill her so spectacularly. You're a good sport, Annie.
> 
> Information about grasses and soils found near UFO sightings was drawn from "Most Crop Circles Not Hoaxes" by Nancy Talbott in the MUFON UFO Journal, September 1998 (3-7) and "The Physics of Crop Formations" by John A. Burke in the MUFON UFO Journal, October 1998 (3-6).
> 
> Radiation poisoning data were taken from _Last Aid: The Medical Dimensions of Nuclear War_, edited by Eric Chivian, Susanna Chivian, Robert Jay Lifton, and John E. Mack (San Francisco: W. H. Freeman and Company, 1982); _Suffering Made Real_ by M. Susan Lindee (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994); and _Emergency_ by The National Council on Radiation Protection and Measurements (1962).
> 
> The description of one person seeing, through his closed eyelids, another person's skeleton, as well as information about radiation poisoning, came from _Effects of A-Bomb Radiation on the Human Body_, ed. by I. Shigematsu, C. Ito, N. Kamada, M. Akiyama, and H. Sasaki, (Chur, Switzerland: Harwood Academic Publishers, 1995), a truly horrifying book.
> 
> I highly recommend _Practical Homicide Investigation: Tactics, Procedures, and Forensic Techniques_ by Vernon J. Geberth (NY: Elsevier Science Publishing Co., 1990) for assistance in describing police procedures.
> 
> The description of Scully's and Krycek's experiences in Ireland was inspired by Loreena McKennitt's haunting "All Souls Night," from her CD _The Visit_. A beautiful and disturbing song, its images refuse to leave my mind.
> 
> I have no idea what the terrain of Achill Island, County Mayo, Ireland, is like; all descriptions of that region and its people come from my imagination and books.


End file.
